Thieves of Hope
by Dawn of Fyre
Summary: The Stark Words always held true in Westeros. Winter had come, and with it, the fury of the North. Jon Snow knew now that love was not the death of duty, how could it be? He could never hope to fulfil his duty without an undying love to help push him forward. Arya Stark was his duty; to help reclaim his little sister's birthright and kill all those who had wronged her.
1. Chapter One

**Enjoy. **

**Thieves of Hope**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Above the stormy sky the moon shone brightly, half obscured by misty grey clouds that covered it like a see-through veil of the finest silk. It was brighter than normal, the greyness doing little to dull the moons glow. Despite all, it was rare to witness such a sad beauty, especially in the midst of a storm, but that did not matter, nor the snow and wind that lashed across Jon Snow's face.

Castle Black and all its treachery were leagues behind them by now.

The thick black cloak he wore did little to stop the harsh wind, but he did not care. The throbbing pain in his burned arm returned but Jon's gaze had been upward for a minute, lost in thought, oblivious to the pain coursing through his arm and the snowflakes had assaulted his face. He did not feel the cold, not anymore, not since those treacherous blades had ripped into his flesh and bone at Castle Black. The memory still hurt. They had betrayed him, his false brothers, and doomed themselves in their folly.

Jon shook his head, his grip on Midnight's reins loosened in his distraction, almost slipping from his grasp. The snow-covered road ahead was illuminated by the moon. There was little chance of an accident, but still, he needed to stay focused. Behind the trotting black destrier trailed his younger sister, Arya Stark, clad in riding leather and heavy grey furs, on her own horse. It was a beautiful beast, dark red all over, a chestnut colour of the darkest kind. She named her Wildfyre. And from what Jon saw, the horse had a fiery temper that suited Arya's own.

"Have you ever seen the moon so large," Arya asked in a disinterested voice. The hood of her wolfskin cloak kept her face shadowed. Jon could almost visualise a frown on her cracked lips. "The sky weeps and we suffer."

There was little beauty left in Jon Snow's world. He saw the world through eyes that had experienced true heartache; loss of family and loved ones, and the bitterness that betrayal brought. Unforgivable and unforgettable. What was beauty? Jon did not think he knew anymore. "I suppose," he answered, glancing over his shoulder. "We need to find shelter, else you will catch a cold, or worse." He only had one real purpose now. Protect the only family that was left to him, to protect Arya Stark of Winterfell and reclaim her birthright.

"We have not seen anyone in over a day, Jon."

Snow crunched beneath their horses hooves. He gently pulled on Midnight's reins and brought the large destrier to a slow halt on the side of the road. Jon dismounted in one swift motion, Longclaw slapping his thigh as he did so. The Valyrian steel sword was one of the only true friends he had left from his time in the Night's Watch.

A sword could never betray.

Ironwood were in abundance, as far as the eye could see, their hard black wood was as old as the realm itself. Tall grey-green sentinels were scattered around, in-between the ironwood and oak trees. Snow consumed the canopy of the forest. _It will suffice for now,_ he thought. The trees were large and would protect from the worst of the wind and snow. But not from the cold. "Arya," Jon said, his breath dancing in the air before dispersing suddenly. "The snowfall is worsening. The wind cuts like a blade. Better we find some cover under the trees and wait the storm out. It would do us no good to blindly follow the Kingsroad and hope we find people that are willing to provide shelter to strangers."

Arya's silent gaze was stern and hard, calculating. It was almost as if Jon was looking at a completely different person then the one he had known before. But she was still his little sister and the slender sword she carried proved it. Needle was buckled to her leather belt, inside of the layers of fur she wore. She had kept it, the sword he gifted her a lifetime ago.

She brought her trembling hand to her mouth and coughed. "We will freeze to death."

"No. We won't, Arya. Have you forgotten what the Red Priestess has done to me?" He would never forgive Melisandre for that. Jon did not ask to be saved, not then, not at the cost of his soul. Something had changed within himself the moment he had awoken from the eternal slumber of death. There was a darkness on the other side, a coldness that enveloped the mind and body and he had left a part of himself there, forever lost.

"I _have_ not forgotten."

Arya dismounted, shivering from the winds onslaught. She comforted Wildfyre with a rub as she secured her to the nearest tree, making sure the horse was well protected from the storm. Jon did the same with Midnight.

He kept one eye on Arya, watching her every movement.

Grey eyes stared back at him. _Sad eyes, _he thought, studying her pale face. The same colour eyes as his own. It was the first thing he saw in Castle Black, after he had awoken. The eyes of a lost sister. Against all the odds she had stood before him in that darkened room, silent and unmoving. The joy he felt in that moment disappeared soon after. Ghost had vanished in the chaos of that night, no one knew how he had escaped from the room Jon had confined him in. He lost a direwolf—the best part of himself, and in turn gained a sister.

Arya was different, though, forever changed. A statue of ice carved from hardship and pain. A consequence of war, no doubt. She was much too strong for a twelve-year-old girl. So much so that it broke his heart just thinking about it. A stolen childhood. She deserved better then what life had thrust upon her.

That night was unforgiving. The cold was like a sword; it cut right through layers of fur and leather. Beneath a large ironwood tree, Arya trembled, hugging herself in an attempt to keep warm. They sat on the wet ground side by side, their backs against the hard wood. In front of them a small fire still burned, despite the storm that was raging overhead. The surrounding trees provided shelter from the harsh winds of the North.

Snow fell without reprieve and lightning lit the sky on fire from time to time. The sound of thunder always followed, crackling like a whip that seemed to last longer and longer as time passed. The heavens were raging against an invisible foe and it was the people below that suffered its wroth.

"Come closer. Wrap your arms around me," Jon whispered to his little sister. "The cold will kill you otherwise." Ever since his revival, Jon constantly felt warmth radiating from within his body. Even now he felt hot. He was even starting to sweat under the black leather he wore.

A small tired smile touched her lips. "Does the cold not bother you anymore?" she asked. "Ever since that day, Jon … you've been so different, different from what I remember." She reached out and touched his cheek. "You burn like a flame."

Her callused fingers were cold, but Jon barely felt it. Her touch reminded him of Winterfell. Memories long forgotten began to stir within his thoughts. Memories of Robb swinging his favourite sword while Lord Stark looked on proudly, Bran climbing the walls of Winterfell, scaring the onlookers with his fearlessness, Rickon learning to walk and laughing, always laughing, and Sansa with her condescending attitude, the mirror image of her lady mother. His murdered siblings. A murdered father. He missed them all. Even now he could see all their smiling faces. He should have done something back then, somehow protected them all, but he did nothing. Instead he helped save the realm from an army of wildlings. A realm saved by his own two hands and betrayal was the reward he received. _Daggers in the dark, _the Red Priestess's voice echoed in the ruins of his mind. It haunted him at night, his failures.

A silence fell between them.

Jon unfastened the clasp on his hooded cloak and wrapped the warm black wool around his sister. She shuffled as close as she could and allowed him to put his arm around her while she leaned into him and laid her head against his shoulder. Arya had grown taller, but she was still small and skinny and it made him worry.

"Comfortable?" Jon asked.

"Yes," she sighed, half-asleep in his arms already.

"Morning will come soon. Get some rest."

And she did. The hours passed slowly, though, and sleep would not come for Jon Snow. Whenever he closed his eyes he would remember, and remembering always hurt. The wolf dreams had disappeared along with Ghost. The only dreams he dreamed now were the ones that left him sweating in the night, screaming as he woke. He did not want to wake up like that, not now, not with Arya sleeping so soundly in his arms.

_Not much longer now, _thought Jon. Long Lake would be no more than a league away. From there, they planned to travel south down the Kingsroad and into the Wolfswood, where hopefully Stannis Baratheon's meagre army of southerners and northerners would be. From the last letters Jon had received, either King Stannis was still in Crofters' Village or had already engaged the Bolton's in open battle.

The only one who could help Jon reclaim Arya's birthright was Stannis Baratheon. It was a risky move, venturing towards Winterfell without knowing who had control of the ancient capital of the North. But a worthwhile risk, and the only option left to them.

Arya stirred in his arms, but refused to wake.

The sky began to turn from grey to white as dark clouds slowly dispersed over the horizon. The sun was rising and the storm easing, but still it snowed heavily. An early morning fog had swept through the forest, making visibility limited. Snowflakes fell as spears of light pierced through the canopy of the forest. Below, frost covered the entirety of the forest floor, arming the green grass with blades of ice. Wildlife was almost non-existent now that winter was here. Most had migrated south. But every now and then Jon could hear the chirp of a bird in the distance. There was something about the atmosphere that made him feel strangely uncomfortable.

It took another half-hour before Arya opened her eyes. "Was I asleep long?" she asked in a dazed voice, wiping away droll from the corners of her cracked lips. When Jon said nothing, she turned her head up at an angle and awkwardly looked at him. "Jon?"

"Do _not_ move a muscle," he whispered.

The small campfire smouldered, the smoke twisting upward like a snake before being blown away by a gust of wind. A set of amber eyes watched them closely from between two thick ironwood trees that were forty feet away. The grey wolf must have used the fog and trees has cover to get as close as possible. But it was the beast's breath that gave away its position. Even now, Jon and Arya's own breathing formed mists that danced before them.

Longclaw was sheathed in a wooden scabbard wrapped in black leather, resting beside Jon against the cold bark of the ironwood. It had been a while since he last unsheathed the bastard sword and he did not know if the cold had frozen the steel against the scabbard. It would mean death if Jon could not quickly unsheathe Longclaw. _Wolves hunt in packs, _he thought, quickly scanning the misty area. He saw no movements. One or two he could deal with, but a whole pack … the more time went on, the more their chances of survival dwindled. He needed to act fast.

Arya's hand moved toward the hilt of Needle, gripping the worn brown leather firmly. The slender blade suited her slight build perfectly. "A wolf?" she whispered. "He looks hungry."

Jon protectively pulled Arya closer and told her in a soft whisper, "More will be coming. We need to get to the horses before more wolves appear and spook them." More than likely, the horses were liable to break their own limbs trying to get free from the rope that kept them tied to the trees.

The sudden sound of numerous wolves howling filled the crisp morning air.

The amber-eyed wolf pricked up its ears, then after a short moment, looked up and answered the call with a long howl of his own. Judging by the volley of howls that were coming from the south, the pack of wolves were getting closer, and Jon could not afford to waste any more time. Time was of the essence. Already the horses were letting out high-pitched neighs, which were long and loud and filled with primal fear. Midnight and Wildfyre were struggling against the ropes that kept them tethered to the trees. If the horses injured themselves or were attacked by the wolves, it would mean certain death.

Slowly Jon reached for Longclaw with his left hand. The grey wolf cautiously stepped forward, each paw crunching beneath the patches of snow that had managed to penetrate the canopy of the frost. Jon knew better then to panic. The wolf would not risk attacking, not until his pack mates were nearby. _He does not fear men, _Jon thought. _Hunger makes all beasts brazen in winter_. "Arya," he whispered "Get to the horses and wait for me."

With a silent nod, Arya unsheathed Needle and slowly pushed herself up onto her feet. In an elegant stance which Jon was not familiar with, she held the sword out, pointing it towards the wolf.

The horses were only twenty feet away from where they had decided to take shelter from the storm. A short sprinting distance with no obstacles in the way. The Kingsroad was also nearby, just past some trees, their only remaining means of escape. Jon grabbed the hilt of Longclaw and carefully dragged the sword in an arc until it was laid flat across his lap. _Ever so slowly, _he told himself and with some effort, managed to unsheathe the rigid steel from its scabbard; his eyes never left those of the wolf. _Gods damn it to hell_. He had laid against the ironwood in a comfortable, but difficult to adjust position. It would not be easy to get to his feet without provoking the wolf into attacking.

Twigs snapped and leaves crunched as Arya side stepped fearlessly, stopping only for a few seconds before taking another step. Jon could not help but glance at her. The fear he felt was not for himself, but for his little sister. He could only see part of her long face, and from what he saw, she was more composed then he would have thought possible for a girl of her age. Fearless. Elegant. When had she become so strong? Before Jon could ponder the question, the wolf bowed low and bared his teeth, revealing a set of razor-sharp teeth that was made for ripping flesh apart.

Arya froze.

The hungry beast growled, droll dribbling from between sharp teeth, and then suddenly it was lunging toward them, dodging trees and obstacles left and right. From thirty feet to twenty feet to ten feet in a matter of seconds. An explosion of sensations flowed through Jon Snow in that moment. Fear and bloodlust rushed through his veins and the next thing he knew, he was standing upright with Longclaw brought up in a defensive stance.

"Arya, run!" he shouted as the wolf leaped at him, jaws snapping viciously. The point of the sword was aimed directly at the wolf's chest, just below the neck. And with a single upward thrust, Longclaw buried itself deep into flesh and bone. The wolf whimpered, but managed one last attempt at ripping Jon's throat out before going limp in his arms. The dead weight forced him to lose his balance and topple over backwards; the back of his head hit hard against the ironwood as he fell.

The overwhelming stink of wet fur and blood filled his nostrils.

"Get up!" A familiar voice shouted, and for a moment, Jon could not quite remember whose voice it belonged too.

The hard ground was cold against the back of his neck where his skin was exposed to the elements, though, he barely felt it. Blood steamed in the cold morning air. Pain swelled in the back of his head, coursing down towards his back and limbs. It was a throbbing sensation that felt like blades piercing his skin. The sudden weight of the dead wolf become apparent and it was suffocating. The need to relieve himself of the heavy mass become frantic with each breath Jon took. With both hands and a great deal of effort, he pushed the dead weight onto one side, grunting as he did so and sighing once it was done.

"Jon!" the voice screamed.

_Arya, _he remembered. _Ghost. _It all came crashing back to him. Both good and bad memories filled his mind, and suddenly he felt like crying. He wanted to feel Ghost's white fur between his fingers one last time, rub his head and stare into his red eyes. The old gods had gifted him with that silent direwolf … and he lost him forever. All the defences he had erected within himself crumbled to dust in that moment, leaving him feeling naked and defenceless.

"_Jon!_" Arya screamed, her voice breaking. "Get up. Get up. You have to _get up!_"

A growl in the distance forced Jon out of his self-pity. Then came another angry growl. And another. _Wolves, _he remembered. _The pack. I have to protect Arya. _Half a hundred feet from where Jon lay, grey wolves started to emerge from the cover of mist and trees, spread out with wagging tails, creeping forward. A dozen or more breaths steamed in the cold air. He grunted and pushed himself up onto unsteady feet. Blood trickled down the back of his head. The sudden quickness in his movements sent blood rushing to his head, making him feel light-headed and nauseous. Longclaw was still sheathed in the dead wolf and the effort to pull the sword out made the muscles in his whole body ache.

Arya was already at the frightened horses, trembling in the cold, trying to untie the ropes.

"Hurry, Arya," he wanted to say, but the words that left his mouth were jumbled and incomprehensible. _You have to get away_, he thought frantically. _You have to survive. _Judging by the angry growls the wolves were making, there were many of them and fighting was not a viable option at this point. Not that Jon thought he could raise his sword again, not for a while at least.

With one hand gripping the back of his aching head and the other dragging Longclaw, Jon slowly started to walk backwards, towards Arya while he stared at the wolves. He knew that if he ran, they would give chase and hunt him down before he ever got near the horses.

Every step was heavy and agonisingly painful. It was like the energy had been drained from every corner of his body. The back of his head throbbed. Blood oozed out from between his fingers and trickled down his neck, staining the black leather he wore. The wet sensation alone made Jon want to vomit. Already he could feel his consciousness slipping. He needed to at least get to Midnight before the darkness consumed him whole. Despite the situation, he did not think that Arya would abandon him, even though it could mean her death.

The wolves were growing far more confident in their movements. And why not, he was visibly wounded after all. The perfect pray. But Jon did not give up. He was close, only ten or so feet from the horses. They only needed to get on horseback, then the wolves would not feast tonight. The irony in that thought made him want to laugh; the last Starks of Winterfell being eaten by wolves. _Bastard, _he reminded himself as he took another step backwards, _you are a bastard born, remember? _

"No," he heard Arya say. "Watch out—"

In the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of grey and dark golden eyes.

Arya screamed.


	2. Chapter Two

**Enjoy.**

**Thieves of Hope**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

Endless storms of snow rained down and bathed the world in eternal coldness. All the surrounding trees wore snow like a man would wear armour, from head to toe. Amidst a field of ice, Jon Snow stood frozen, staring upward at the dark weeping sky. The sun's warm smile had faded away behind grey clouds. Was he dreaming again? He did not know for sure. The days had come and went, one after another, or so he thought. The thin line between reality and illusion had blurred a lifetime ago.

The air smelled crisp, of pine needles and wood smoke and snow. The smells of winter. When he had been a little boy of three, his father had taken him and Robb beyond the walls of Winterfell, out towards Torrhen's Square on horseback. It was the earliest such adventure he could remember, but a vague memory at best. The smells, though, he would never forget the smells. It was the same smells he was smelling now, only stronger.

Had his senses ever been this potent before? The more Jon tried to focus on that question, the more the answer eluded him. He found it hard to focus on anything for too long, except the snow, he could never forget the snow. There were rare moments where he thought he was awake, someone leaning over him and speaking words he did not understand, but then again, that might have been another dream.

In the distance a horn blew, long and loud. Louder than anything he ever heard before. The sound was queer, and hurt the ears. Jon fell to his knees and put his hands to his head, wishing away the noise that threatened to pierce his skull. The sound was sharp, at the edge of hearing, like the crackling of ice on a frozen lake. It became colder all of a sudden. Had it ever been this cold?

One by one, faces appeared from behind the forest of snow that stretched as far as the eye could see, in every direction. A thousand blue eyes glimmered like stars, piercing through the snowstorm. They had come for him, the army of dead corpses led by the Others. _The cold gods of the north, _he thought, readying Longclaw for a battle already lost. _They will kill us all. _It was only now, as he looked down, that he saw the many corpses that littered the ground around him.

He knew them all by face. Almost everyone he had ever known throughout his seventeen years was at his feet, horrified expressions carved across their dead faces. A thin layer of snow covered them like a blanket. Heart pounding, Jon surveyed the frozen corpses, searching for the only one he could not bear to lose. He lost so much already, and losing her would break him. He must have been staring a long time, because when he looked up, a throne had appeared not ten feet away from where he stood.

That was when he saw her, sitting atop the throne of beautiful shimmering ice. With skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars, Arya Stark watched him. A crown of blue roses carved from solid ice was nestled on her long dark hair. _A Queen of Winter, _he thought, and suddenly he found himself kneeling before her. Longclaw was laid at his feet as a sign of fealty. When Jon looked up, he got mesmerised in her cold regal eyes. With just a look, she silently called to him, wanting him to forsake his soul and give her all he had.

And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to give her everything.

_Wake up, my love, _came the silent voice. Jon blinked, confused, the spell that kept him bind to her alluring gaze broken. _Wake up and fulfil the promise you made all those years ago_. The voice sounded so familiar that it brought tears to his eyes. Where had he heard that voice before? It alluded him for a moment. Then he remembered that Arya had grey eyes and not blue.

"Who are you," he asked.

The Queen of Winter smiled a sad smile in response, and when she did, Jon Snow's heart clenched. Her smile reminded him of a better time, where innocence roamed the halls of Winterfell. Arya had been born into this world squealing, a cute little babe with a tuft of dark hair and fierce dark eyes. He was five when he whispered the promise to her, the first oath he ever took. Those few words he spoke had stopped her wailing during that night, even when no one else could, and he knew then, knew that promises were never meant to be broken.

_Wake up, _the voice whispered, and this time, he listened.

Jon woke with a gasp, sweating through his black woollens. His black cloak and the pair of well-used boots he owned were placed near him. For once, he wished he could feel the cold the way she did. He could walk naked through the snowstorm and he would barely feel it, but that was stupid, who would walk naked in winter? _Only the dead, Lord Snow, _came the voice of Lord Commander Mormont, _an army of dead men who mean to plunge the world in darkness_. The nightmare continued to linger, refusing to leave him be. _It was just a dream,_ he reminded himself. Only … it did not feel like a dream. The nightmare had been vivid, the most vivid he had ever experienced.

The light from a nearby fire was overwhelming. Jon blinked away the tears, trying to turn his head away from the brightness. The ache in his eyes made him wince. It took a while, but once his eyes adjusted, he realised that he was in a large cave somewhere. The horses were huddled together at the far end of the cave, sleeping upright with blankets to keep them warm. Shadows from the fire danced across the stone walls. On the hard dirt floor beside him, Arya was asleep under the few remaining blankets they owned, her head snuggled against his side, hidden from the cold.

The cave entrance was just beyond the campfire, a dozen feet away. Although it was night, Jon could see snow falling; white flakes against the darkness. The wind cut right through the storm, blowing the snowflakes away with a fury only seen in winter. The sound of the wind was loud and angry and made Jon thankful they were hidden away from its wroth.

_The wolves, _he remembered, suddenly confused. The memories were starting to return; the treachery at Castle Black and the journey south and … and _Ghost._ Jon shook his head at the thought of his direwolf and focused on the fact that they had been ambushed by wolves. _How are we still alive?_

There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but the thought of waking Arya stilled him. He could imagine it now, the way she would have stood vigil over him, waiting. Day and night, not knowing if he would die. Jon thought it best to let her sleep. It was only then, when he was more aware of his surroundings that he felt the pain; a headache that pounded and the throbbing in the back of his head. A linen cloth was wrapped around his neck, crusted with dried blood. He brought his hand up and pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to relieve the pulsing pressure.

He felt exhausted, but refused to fall asleep again. He had already slept enough for one lifetime.

When morning came, the fire had burned out. The smouldering wood produced white smoke that snaked its way outside. Arya had unconsciously wrapped her arms and legs around his body in an attempt to get warmer. She was cold more oft than not, and Jon Snow would be damned if he did not allow his little sister this one reprieve.

With every hour that passed, he could feel more of his strength return. The night had been long and it left him wondering about how she managed to save him and the horses from the pack of wolves. Every scenario he played and replayed in his mind came to the same conclusion. No one could have fought a whole pack of wolves and lived to tell the tale.

Arya shifted her head, burying it deeper into his side and mumbling words that sounded like names. Part of her face showed from beneath the blankets. Her lips were cracked and cheeks flushed red. Not even his unnatural warmth was enough to stop the cold that had her trembling. She wore soft leather gloves and riding boots, grey woollen breaches and a laced up leather jerkin over a white tunic. Even when sleeping she wore a hooded wolfskin cloak that was big enough to wrap around her whole. Jon would give her all his warmth if he could. She deserved it more than him, for he was just a bastard-born and she a Princess of Winterfell.

Matted strands of dark hair fell down over her cheek, and almost instinctively, Jon reached over and brushed them away with his left hand. _A pretty face, _he concluded. His thumb lingered on her cheek as he got lost in thought. The nightmare still clouded his mind. _A Queen of Winter crowned in blue ice_. Robb had been a king once, the first King in the North for over three centuries. By right of blood, the Winter Throne was Arya Stark's. But that was folly. As long as Stannis Baratheon breathed, he would never allow such an act of treason to go unpunished. But still …

"Jon?" Arya breathed, her eyes half open. Grey eyes, not blue. She choked back a sob as the realisation washed over her. "I … I _thought_ I'd lose you again."

She looked vulnerable and relieved in the half-light that filtered into the cave. It was the first time in years he saw her cry like this. Just how long had she kept her feelings all bottled up inside? The last time he saw her this upset was before the war of the five kings, before they had left Winterfell. _I promised I would never leave your side and that I would always protect you, _he thought, suddenly ashamed_._ He broke that promise the moment he left for the Night's Watch, but never again. Never would be betray her again. Words alone were not enough to describe what he was feeling so he only whispered to her, "You never will." He meant it.

"I thought she'd killed you," she said with a voice filled with shame and sorrow. "It's all my fault, you know, everything that happened." Arya turned her face away, trying to hide the fact that she was crying. "I'm weak, Jon. I did not think I was weak, not until now. I have killed many, yet … my training was for naught, it would seem. The Kindly man would be so proud." She sniffled back more sobs, retreating under the cover of blankets to hide from the world.

Jon Snow did not know who this kindly man was or who she had killed, but knew that nothing that happened was Arya's fault. Nothing would ever be her fault, not in his eyes. "Arya," he said, trying to get her attention. "You're not weak. Anyone who says otherwise will likely get a taste of Needle, and Longclaw if need be. Do you hear me?" He grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it down. Her arms were held to her chest and she looked at him sideways with wet pleading eyes. "What happened, happened. It was not your fault. We're still alive, are we not?"

"But she almost killed you!"

"Who did?"

"_She_ did, and it would've have been my fault."

Jon had been so focused on Arya that he did not notice the large beast that had wandered into the cave, silent as a ghost. The horses sensed the danger and were snorting loudly, trying to back away from the predator. Their long ears were laid back and their white teeth bared in fear, ready to bite. _A direwolf, _he thought. Grey fur and dark golden eyes that beamed like the sun. Nymeria had grown since the last time he saw her, though not as big as Ghost. That made him sad. _Do you weep for another lost brother? Do you howl at the moon in rage and ask why they were taken? _Jon looked into Nymeria's eyes and saw sadness wrapped in anger, but then again, that might have just been his own reflection staring back at him.

Then he realised why Arya was so distraught. He reached up and touched the blood-stained cloth wrapped around his neck. Nymeria must have been the wolf that attacked him from his blind spot. _Fast and agile and deadly, _he thought, _just like Ghost._ But Ghost was gone and there was a void in his heart. An emptiness that would never be filled. There were times where Jon wished he could forget about his silent direwolf. The memory hurt, and forgetting was easier than remembering. But he never could forget, and part of him never wanted too.

"Say something," Arya whispered as she sniffled back more sobs.

"Arya." He sighed, ruffling her hair like he did when they were younger. "You worry too much."

That just made her cry more. During the past few weeks, Jon had refrained from asking too many questions about where she had been and what she had done. Her body language always suggested the topic was off-limits and he was content with knowing she was safe and with him. A family again. But being safe and being happy were a different matter altogether and now that he saw how vulnerable and upset she looked, he wondered if he should have broached the subject.

Jon shifted onto his right side and put his free arm around her, pulling her close. There was a certain sanctity about their embrace that was reminiscent of the strong bond they shared in Winterfell. And it did not matter that his body was aching and head throbbing, because in that moment, all that mattered was her.

Arya gave him an embarrassed look afterwards and said, "I was not crying."

"No?" Jon burst into laughter, and soon, her sweet voice filled the cave with laughter as well. As he held her in his arms he saw her smile, truly smile, and he knew in that moment that his sword would forever be hers and that he would die for her if need be. _A Princess of Winterfell._ What was the life of one bastard compared to that of a princess? He knew his duty, and would do what needed to be done. Even if that meant sacrificing his life to protect her from her enemies.

Jon pressed a kiss on her forehead. "I'll always protect you, little sister. Now and forever." He made a promise after all, a solemn oath … his very last duty. He was the sword in the darkness; the bastard sword that would slay her enemies and reclaim her birthright.

The sun was at its highest point in the sky, hidden behind grey clouds when she finally untangled herself from his warmth. Despite the snowfall, the horses were grazing outside, digging up dying grass with their hooves. Midnight and Wildfyre may have been able to find their own food, but they still needed water and eating snow was not a sustainable option. Arya reluctantly stood, frowning at the loss of warmth. "I'll be back, so just rest and get better." With the wolfskin cloak wrapped around her body and the hood her face, she ventured outside to check on the horses and bring back fresh snow to boil.

Near the campfire there was a bunch of dry wood and twigs to be used as kindle. _She will make a good wife one day, _he thought with a smile,_ if she decides to wed that is. _Sitting up was difficult at first, and exhausting. Despite what Arya said, Jon felt the need to help out in some way. Leaving all the work to her made him feel uncomfortable; he was a man after all, hurt or not. And she a princess. That thought gave him a stronger sense of determination to push through the pain. Rekindling the fire was harder than expected, his fingers felt odd and tingly and once it was done, it left him breathless and sweating.

The severe blood loss he experienced still left him feeling light-headed whenever he was upright for too long. They had talked about it for hours, about the severity of his wounds and how she mounted his bleeding, unconscious body upon Nymeria, who led them to the cave her pack was using for shelter. It was only at the end that she told him with teary eyes about Nymeria sinking her fangs into his neck and almost ripping his throat out before realising who she was biting. That amount of blood loss, she had feared the worst and did not know what she would have done if he had died again.

When Arya returned, she was not pleased to find him sitting upright on the dirt floor. "You should be resting," she told him with a frown upon her lips. Her skin was like porcelain, save the flush that stained her cheeks red. She walked deeper into the cave and sat down near the campfire, opposite Jon. She place two iron cans filled with snow over the fire and waited for the snow to melt and boil. "You need to get better. I _need_ you to get better. So please just lay back down and rest while I prepare the water for the horses."

"As you say, my lady."

She gave him a look of annoyance. "You're stupid, you know that? Really really stupid."

Jon smiled at her. He could not argue with that.

Nymeria had left hours ago and only now returned, muzzle bloodied with a scrawny white rabbit between her sharp teeth. They still had their rations of biscuits, black sausages and hard round bread, which they stole from Castle Black before sneaking away under the cover of night. But cooked rabbit would always be a welcomed sight. They cooked and ate the tender sizzling meat in silence, chancing glances at each other between bites. Her face was a mask again. Invulnerable to anyone but him. Sometimes he wished she would let down her guard voluntarily and open up to him; tell him what she had been through and experienced. He could not blame her, though, there were things he had not shared with her as well.

The days grew shorter and the nights longer. Most days, Nymeria returned from her hunting with nothing but a muzzle covered in snow. The long nights were filled with the sound of howling. Nymeria's pack of wolves kept close, but not too close for they were still weary of humans. Not even three dozen wolves were enough to find proper pray that would feed them all. That was only the beginning, though. Jon knew that winter would only worsen and worsen until snow covered Westeros from north to south and from east to west. Every man, woman and child, from the North to Dorne would suffer the chill; every animal would fight a dying battle against nature. Only the strong would survive, and the Starks were nothing if not strong.

"We will endure," Jon said one night as they sat around the fire, feasting on dwindling rations. His strength had all but returned by now. "The Starks have ruled the North since the age of hero's. Eight thousand years, Arya. A thousand and more winters the Starks have survived. This winter will be no different. You are the last Stark—a princess of the North. Winterfell is yours by right and I mean to do what Robb could not. I will take you home."

Arya touched him on the arm and frowned. "You're as much Stark as me. Why do you deny yourself that?" There was hurt in her grey eyes.

"I am a bastard—"

"—and a Stark," Arya added, furious. "Your looks betray your words."

_Aye,_ he thought, _I look more Stark then any of my father's trueborn sons._ But that had just made it hurt worse growing up, knowing he would never hold a title, even though he looked so much like his father. Stannis Baratheon had offered him Winterfell, and he had been tempted, so tempted to say yes ... but he never did. And never would. _I can never be a Stark. _"I'm merely a sword, Arya. _Your_ sword. Point me at your enemies and they will die screaming." Jon sighed, thumbing his forehead. He did not want to fight, not now, not with her. "Get some rest, little sister. Tomorrow we will continue south and you'll need all the sleep you can get."

That night they slept side by side, beneath layers of blankets and cloaks, listening to the mournful howling of wolves. Arya refused to talk to him, or even acknowledge his presence besides. If she could, she would have slept at the other side of the cave, far away from him. But alone, without the warmth radiating from his body, she would freeze to death and no amount of disagreement was worth such a fate.

When morning came, they awoke in each other's arms. It seemed that sleeping next to one another always led to them waking up in an awkward, but comfortable embrace. It was the same embrace they shared many times as children. Her head was nestled beneath his neck, in the perfect spot that kept her whole face warm. Despite the argument they had the night before, he could feel the slightest smile against his warm naked skin.

"I'm still mad at you," Arya finally said. "Sometimes you can be really stubborn, and stupid."

Something felt odd, but Jon was too groggy from sleep to pinpoint the discomfort. "Would it help if I said I was sorry? And stupid, as you like to often remind me." He yawned and shifted slightly. "I should not have spoken to you with such disregard for your feelings. I apologise." _My lady, _he might have added, but he knew better than to say it out loud.

"No. You shouldn't have—" Arya pulled away suddenly and looked up at him at an angle. Her shoulder length hair was a mess and her face flushed from ear to ear, and it was obvious she was trying to hold back a laugh.

"Something wrong?"

"You told me that you were my sword," she said after a moment of silence, embarrassed. "The night before … you said that you would slay my enemies and take me back home."

Jon was confused. "I did. What of it?"

"But …" A hint of shy amusement was in her voice. "You never said you would try to slay me with _your_ sword."

_My sword? _A cold sweat broke out that threatened to consume him whole. "What do you—" The realisation hit him like a boulder. He could feel it now. His cock was as hard as an iron bar, and had rudely introduced itself against his little sister's stomach. _Seven bloody hells, _thought Jon as he rolled over to one side, his back turned to Arya. _This is not happening._ His face was burning from utter embarrassment. The bulge was very noticeable in his woollen breeches, and the more he willed it to soften, the more it hardened. He needed to piss.

"That was very rude of my sworn protector," she teased, staring as he stood. "Was that what you meant when you said you would slay my enemies, Jon?"

"Stop that," he growled back. They would not talk about this. "I … I need to piss, so …"

Arya just giggled and added with a straight face, "Stick 'em with the pointy end."

He quickly retreated outside, sweating from embarrassment. Snow crunched beneath his bare feet, but he did not feel the chill like a normal man would. Longclaw was slung across his back, in case he had need. Nymeria was out hunting again, and some of her grey cousins would not hesitate to attack if they were desperate enough. He strode towards the largest of the ironwood that stood near the cave. Jon cursed as he pissed in the morning light, melting the patches of snow that surrounded the root of the tree.

A snow owl perched itself upon one of the thick branches and stared at him with yellow eyes. Jon stared back, cock still in hand. "What do you want?" he asked, frowning. _Even the bird mocks me. _The white owl uttered a series of hoots before flying off.

As he laced up his breeches, he felt the sharp edge of a blade against his neck. "Do not move, Lord Snow." The voice sounded familiar, but with a knife to his throat, he found it hard to recall a name. Blood trickled down his neck. "Fancy meeting you here, so far south of the Wall. Deserted your post, did we?" Jon was disarmed and pushed onto his knees, facing the ironwood.

A horn blew in the distance, not far from where they were, _Aaaaahooooooooooooooooooooo, Aaaaahoooooooooooooooooooooooooo._ And after a few moments, another horn bearer answered its call. The sound of sentry horns, Jon knew. "Who are you," he asked. _Which king do you serve, _he wanted to say.

"You wound me," said his captor in a gruff voice. "You northerners are all the same."

_That arrogance can only belong to one man, _he thought, remembering. "Ser Godry Farring." _Godry the Giantslayer, _they named him after he slew a fleeing giant. He had marched south on Deepwood Motte with Stannis Baratheon. What was he doing so far north of Winterfell? Had the battle already been decided? Did King Stannis defeat the Boltons and was sending Ser Godry to inform the North in person, or … was this all that was left of a defeated army?

"Get up," Ser Godry spat. "The king will want a word with you. Pray to your wooden gods, Lord Snow. The king has burned men for less, and deserting is a crime punishable by death."


End file.
